The ground ahead of me, my own hands, suddenly became lighter. The wind had blown a hole in the cloud and the moon peered through it—an old moon, haggard, empty of everything but grief. I thought of Hecuba and shivered, but really there was no room in my mind now for anyone except Amina. Where was she? I’d heard no sound, detected no movement—I actually let myself hope the guards’ voices had frightened her away. She’d be on the beach, I thought, walking up and down as I used to do, schooling herself to accept the unacceptable. If I went back that way, I might catch up with her. I started to walk through the dunes, moving swiftly and silently, every few paces crouching down again to make myself less of a target for the wind. Above my head, the blades of marram grass shone silver in the moonlight. I told myself I might just walk quickly past the body, check she wasn’t there, and then slide down the slopes of sand onto the beach and go safely home. But, immediately, I remembered I couldn’t go back that way because the entrance to the compound was guarded and, though the guards would recognize me, it might be a little difficult to explain what I was doing wandering about in the middle of the night. Worry about that later. I dropped to my knees and crawled in the direction of the smell, trying at the same time to hold my mantle over my nose and mouth—a curious, crippled, three-legged crawl through loose sand. I kept stopping, straining to hear the guards, but either the wind was drowning out their voices, or they’d gone quiet. Asleep? Probably. I couldn’t imagine a more boring job.
But then, I did hear a noise: quick, shallow breathing. I thought of all the predatory animals that might be drawn to the body at night. I couldn’t shout to scare whatever it was away because that would attract the attention of the guards, so I had to continue on the path. It was getting lighter; the slope of sand ahead of me gleamed white. Any minute now the grooms, who were always up before dawn, would be taking the horses to pasture. One quick look, I told myself, and then I’d go back home. As I got closer, the breathing became louder, the smell indescribably vile—and then I saw her, a huddled black shape scrabbling away with both hands.
“Amina.”
She spun around, her face sharp with fear, realized it was me and hissed, “Go away.”
I crawled forward. The ground around the body was disturbed—her fingermarks everywhere like the claws of an animal. Forcing myself to look more closely, I saw the body was almost covered, but with one skeletonized arm still exposed. The hand seemed to reach out to me. I remembered that same hand with a silver coin glinting on its palm—only now there was no palm, no flesh left at all. The white bones pleaded with me to be covered up. Without ever making a conscious decision, I found myself scrabbling in the sandy soil, exactly as Amina had been doing. We didn’t look at each other—we didn’t speak—but two of us working together got the job done fast. I wiped my hands on my tunic and started to stand up. But then, to my horror, she began saying the prayers for the dead. Light perpetual, rest eternal…“Amina!” I said, struggling to keep my voice down. There seemed to be a blockage in my chest that stopped my breathing—not some irritating little impediment like you sometimes get with a sore throat or a cold—big, like a man’s clenched fist. “Look, you’ve done what you came out to do. We’ve got to go back now.”
She shook her head. “Not till I’ve finished the prayers.”
“You can do that in the hut.” I saw something on the ground on the other side of her, a hunk of bread and a jug of wine, both of them needed to complete the ritual. “You’ve done this once already.”
“No, I didn’t, somebody walked past, I had to stop. I’ve got to do it properly this time.”
“Do you think the gods care? You’ve done enough.”
But she wouldn’t listen. And I couldn’t leave her. So, we knelt there, gabbling the prayers for the dead: a safe crossing, a quiet sea, peace at the last…All the hopes we cling to, as we send those frail vessels out into the dark. I’ve never in my life heard the burial prayers rattled through as fast as we said them that night—and I’ve sat through some perfunctory funerals in my day. When we’d finished, Amina broke off a lump of bread and handed me the jug. The crust was hard, the wine sour—by the time I’d forced it down tears were streaming over my cheeks—and they weren’t tears of grief either. Amina managed to swallow her crust, though she almost choked, and then poured the last of the wine onto the sand as a libation to the gods. The ground was so parched the drops bounced, before puckering the surface and sinking in. I noticed Amina had a red stain at the corner of her mouth and, in noticing that, I became aware of how light it had become.
Abruptly, I was furious. “Now come on,” I said, seizing her thin arms and dragging her to her feet.
She was staring at me. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t move or speak, but then realized she was looking not at me but at something behind me. At the same moment, a hand grabbed the back of my neck. I felt a jolt run through my body; the baby inside me kicked. The other guards were coming up behind him. I twisted round, wanting them to see who I was, knowing the Myrmidons wouldn’t hurt me. But when I looked from face to face there were no smiles, no hint of recognition. These were the young fighters from Skyros, Pyrrhus’s men—and I knew I had no influence with them. Pulling our arms roughly behind us, they forced us ahead of them down the steep path to the camp.
19
We were led away from the grave and marched through the stable yard. By now, the sun was climbing steeply above the horizon, throwing a harsh light on the faces of the grooms who turned to watch us pass. Through the stable yard and on to Pyrrhus’s hall, where there were more guards, Myrmidons this time, who recognized me as Lord Alcimus’s wife.
“We should fetch Alcimus,” one of them said.
“No,” said the guard holding me. “Lord Pyrrhus was quite clear. They’re to go straight to him.”
And so, they pushed us up the steps onto the veranda, where they hammered on the door—and went on hammering for some considerable time before Pyrrhus himself came to answer it. He’d draped the purple-and-silver coverlet from his bed loosely round his shoulders but was otherwise naked. He peered from face to face, bleary-eyed from sleep, foul-tempered and bewildered by the sudden intrusion. “What’s this?”
“We found them burying Priam.”
Pyrrhus stepped aside and the guards pushed us ahead of them into the hall.
“Women?” Pyrrhus said, staring at us incredulously. “Are you sure?”
“We all saw them, sir—and heard them. They were saying the prayers for the dead.”
Many of the Myrmidon fighters had followed us into the hall. One of them coughed and pointed to me. “That’s Lord Alcimus’s wife.”
“Is it?”